The Desert Movement

Caution: If you are easily disgusted, you’ve been warned.

An early rise at 5:30am is completely outside my normal routine, but a sunrise over the Sahara sand dunes in Morocco was something I didn’t want to miss.

 

Grabbing my prepared back pack, I stepped out of my tent and headed towards the hill I needed to climb to experience the sunrise. Walking past the last tent, I noticed a few fellow travellers had already started the climb.

Starting at the base, the compacted sand quickly became soft.

Each step I took, my foot felt like it was being swallowed by sand. What I thought was going to be an easy climb was now becoming a struggle.

Gradually the traveller’s steady pace up the hill started to mimic the movements of a sloth. One gave up, too exhausted.

The cool shade did nothing to alleviate the temperature rising inside me.

Each step, I could feel more pressure in my stomach, feeling like my internal organs were twisting into the shape of pretzel.

But I struggled on, the summit was in my line of site, my goal.

I was Rocky Balboa, and the hill was my Philadelphia Museum of Art, only  without the Rocky theme music to accompany me.

I finally reached the top!20151029-still1

I found a rock that would make a perfect seat. I sat down to enjoy the sunrise, the sickness subsiding like my body knew I would enjoy the scene  better without pain.

Following a beautiful sunrise, the other viewers started making their descent.

I was finishing up my photos and ended up being the last person, and it’s a good thing I did. As soon as I stood up, a painful wave rippled through  my intestines.

I quickly scooted behind a large rock, removing my trousers faster than Magic Mike’s Velcro pants. The horrendous pressure was bubbling inside of me!Beads of sweat cascaded down my forehead as I squatted, shaking from the shock.

I shamefully swept the sand over it like a cat in a giant litter box.

 

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