The Desert Dilemma

The Desert Dilemma

This is a story is a memory of a trip I took to Morrocco over fifty years ago. It had a profond effect on my understanding of the world. Fortunatly I kept a diary of the trip and recently found it again and it inspired me to write this story.

Transcript

The Desert Dilemma

A short story by Jeff Price

The rifle barrels caught the firelight first. I froze with my tin mug halfway to my lips, the Moroccan wine suddenly bitter on my tongue. The three figures emerged from the darkness, faces wrapped in indigo cloth, only their eyes visible above the fabric. Bedouin, I realised. Real ones, not the tourist-costume variety from the Marrakesh souks. Each carried a long rifle, weathered wood and dull metal that spoke of practical use rather than ceremony.

"Bonsoir," our driver and leader John called out, his voice steady. "Veuillez vous joindre à nous."

By this time most of the others had gone to sleep in their tents or were sleeping on the ground near the fire. Dave, my brother, stirred beside me. Jim sat up with a grunt, his considerable bulk shifting under the blanket. Only Julian remained asleep, snoring softly by the dying embers.

"Please, sit with us," I said, gesturing to the ground around our fire.

They exchanged glances—at least I thought they did; hard to tell with their faces covered. The tallest one spoke in rapid Arabic to his companions, then addressed us in French.

"Anglais?" 

"Yes. From England," I replied in my best schoolboy French.

This seemed to amuse them. The tall one—their leader, apparently—said something that made the other two chuckle. They lowered their rifles and the large sacks they were carrying and approached the fire.

I ladled soup into three spare mugs, tore bread from our communal loaf. Basic hospitality, learned from my mother: you always feed unexpected guests, even if they arrive armed at midnight in the Sahara.

How had we ended up here? Three days ago we'd been in Tangiers, four English lads on a cheap package tour, following the hippie trail through Morocco in a cramped Ford van with eight other people. Our guide John had taken us over the High Atlas Mountains to Ouarzazate, the last outpost before the deep desert. "Camp by the wadi," he'd said, pointing to a dried riverbed. "Perfectly safe."

I'd protested—you never camp by water, I remembered from my scouting days in the Lake District—but John just laughed. "This is the Sahara, not the Lake District. That river hasn't flowed at this time of year in living memory."

Now, watching these three desert dwellers eat our soup with obvious relish, I wondered what other assumptions I'd brought from Newcastle that had no place here.

The wine and hashish we'd shared earlier had mellowed the edges of fear. The tall Bedouin introduced himself as Hamid, the others as his cousins Yussef and Mohammed. We spoke in French—they were more fluent than I was, switching effortlessly between Arabic among themselves and French with us.

"We live in the mountains," Hamid explained, pointing towards the dark bulk of the High Atlas. "We mine quartz crystals. There's a French dealer in Ouarzazate who buys from us."

"Did you say gold?" Dave asked, suddenly interested.

"No, just crystals. But beautiful ones. The French prize them highly."

Hamid opened one of the large bags they had placed behind them and showed us a large chunk of blue crystal quartz.

They were miners, I realised. Probably worked claims their families had held for generations, following seasonal patterns as old as the mountains themselves. Three times a year they told us they made the trek down to the town, carrying their harvest of gemstones to market.

"Tomorrow we will go into Ouarzazate to sell our crystals," Yussef explained. "This time it is a good crop. We've been arguing all the way from our camp about what to do with the money, and I am curious to know what you think."

"Of course," I said.

"We have enough saved for one of two things. Either we buy a camel, or we arrange a marriage. What do you think would serve us better?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. Dave and Jim exchanged glances. This wasn't hypothetical—they genuinely wanted our advice on a major life decision.

"A marriage?" Dave asked carefully.

"Yes. There's a woman in our extended family—her father and I have been negotiating. She would help with cooking, fetching water and looking after our camp. The three of us would share the bride price and benefit from her labour." Hamid spoke matter-of-factly, as if discussing any other business arrangement.

"But... she's a person," I said. "Not property."

This sparked animated discussion among the three in Arabic. Finally Hamid turned back to us.

"Of course she's a person. That's why it will work. Her family needs the bride price—they have debts. We need help. She gets security and can marry one of us and as a married woman have status in our tribe. Everyone benefits." He paused. "It's business, yes, but it's also a partnership."

I tried to process this. In Newcastle, marriage was romance, love, personal choice. Here it was economic survival, mutual benefit, family negotiation. Neither was really wrong or right, exactly, but they occupied different moral universes.

"Tell us about the camel," Jim said diplomatically.

Yussef brightened. "A camel would be invaluable. Strong enough to carry three times what we can manage on foot. It would cut our travel time and allow us to work claims further from town."

"How many camels do you keep in England?" Mohammed asked suddenly.

"None," I said. "Well, only in zoos."

"What is a zoo?"

I explained the concept—animals in cages and people pay money to look at them. The three men stared at me in amazement.

"You pay money to see animals in a prison?" Hamid asked, incredulous.

"It's not quite like prison..."

"But animals roam free everywhere," Yussef said, gesturing at the darkness around us. "Why would you cage them just so you could look at them?"

"Education," Dave offered weakly.

"Ah." Hamid nodded solemnly. "You English have strange customs."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, judging their marriage customs, while they found our zoos idiotic. Who was the primitive one?

"So," Hamid continued, "the camel or the marriage? You are travellers from a rich country. What do you think is better?"

Rich English! I thought about my shared terraced house in Newcastle, my job in a local department store selling carpets and the months of saving that had paid for this trip. But compared to these men, hunting crystals in hazardous mountain ravines and outcrops, perhaps I was wealthy. Wealthy enough to travel for pleasure. Wealthy enough to be well-fed, as they'd probably noticed about Jim.

"The camel sounds practical," I said finally.

"Really?" Hamid looked surprised. "But a wife means sons eventually. Sons to help with the work. A camel only provides labour."

"Sons require feeding," Mohammed pointed out. "Camels graze."

"But sons grow strong and capable. Camels age and die." The arguments from the journey from the mountains began to play out again.

They were thinking in decades, I realised. Generational planning. Investment in the future of their bloodline, not just immediate profit and loss.

"What does the woman want?" I asked.

Another burst of Arabic discussion.

"She wants marriage," Hamid said. "A family of her own. Security. The same things we want."

"But she doesn't get to choose which husband?"

"Her father chooses one of us, yes. But he knows us well, knows we're honourable men. She knows us too—she's related to my cousin's wife."

So not strangers, then. An arranged marriage within an extended family network, with everyone's needs considered. Still felt wrong to my Western sensibilities, but less alien than buying a bride from a market.

"The camel," Dave said suddenly. "Definitely the camel."

I looked at him sharply. Dave was like my father; it was always about money, practical economics, not emotion.

"Why?" Hamid asked.

"Because you're young," Dave said. "Buy the camel now, make more money. Later, when you're established, then think about wives."

The three Bedouin considered this solemnly. It made sense in their world—business first, family second. Build the foundation before adding dependents.

"Also," I added, warming to the theme, "a camel you own outright. A wife... she has her own thoughts, her own needs. More complex to manage."

"True enough," Yussef agreed. "A wife will argue. A camel may be bad tempered but it only needs grass and water."

We sat in companionable silence, watching the fire burn down. The desert night was vast around us, cold and clean and full of stars I had never seen in Newcastle where only the brightest shone through the smoke and fog. These men lived under this sky every night, navigated by constellations, and measured time by seasons.

What did I know about their lives? What qualified me to advise them on anything?

"In England," Mohammed said suddenly, "how many wives may a man take?"

"You are only allowed one," I said.

All three looked puzzled.

"Only one? But what if she dies? If she falls ill? If she bears no sons?"

"Then you're unlucky, I suppose."

"How strange," Hamid murmured. "A wealthy nation permits only one wife. A poor country allows many wives if you can afford them. The world seems backwards sometimes."

Maybe it was. Maybe everything I'd assumed about progress, about civilisation, about the natural order of things was just a cultural accident. These men weren't primitive—they were adapted. Perfectly suited to their environment, their challenges, their world.

I was the exotic one here. The curiosity.

"We'll consider the camel carefully," Hamid said finally, rising and brushing sand from his robes. "Perhaps you're right. Business before family."

They prepared to melt back into the darkness.

"Wait," I called. "Where will you sleep?"

Hamid pointed towards the dunes. "The stars make a fine roof. Sand's softer than any mattress."

"Stay here. Share our fire."

He smiled—I could see it in his eyes, even with his face covered. "You're generous men but no." They picked up their heavy bags of quartz and left as quietly as they'd come, three shadows merging with the greater shadow of the desert. I heard their voices fading in the distance, probably laughing at our strange foreign ways.

Dave poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiralling upward.

"Do you think we gave them good advice?" he asked.

I thought for a moment and looked up at the Milky Way, clearer here than I'd ever seen it. "I don't know. We don't know anything about their lives, really."

"But the camel makes sense. Economically," Dave added.

"Maybe. Or maybe we just projected our own values onto their situation. Maybe a wife would have been better. More human connection, family, purpose beyond just gathering crystals. Maybe we're overthinking it."

Later, lying there under that immense sky, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd learned more from them than they had from us. About different ways of living, different definitions of wealth, different approaches to the fundamental questions of life.

In Newcastle, I'd been certain about so many things. Right and wrong, progress and backwardness, civilised and primitive. Now, warmed by a fire in the Sahara, advised by armed strangers who lived by entirely different rules, those certainties seemed as insubstantial.

Tomorrow we'd drive back towards civilisation, back to the world of small choices and smaller horizons.

But tonight, under the stars, anything seemed possible. Even buying a camel or a wife.