The muezzin’s voice flooded the streets of Ouarzazate like a rising tide of rhythmic sound, shattering the cold still air of a February morning. I awoke with the sun, its bright rays seemingly powerless to combat the chill of dawn. I knew, however, that it would not last long. Temperature variations in the Sahara can encompass swings of 60 degrees Farenheit or more in a matter of hours, and unprepared travelers can suffer severe exposure if not properly equipped. Marechal Hubert Lyautey, France’s first Resident-General of Morocco once described his adopted homeland as “a cold country with a hot sun”. As I glanced ruefully at my oxide sunscreen neatly juxtaposed next to my faded travel jacket I knew he was right. I packed the last of my survival kit into my Osprey pack, layered a wool pashmina around my neck, and headed up to the roof of our tiny riad for breakfast. Nestled within the heart of the Kasbah Taorirt, it overlooked the sleeping city and the peaks of the High Atlas to the west. To the east the rising sun lit up the Draa valley like a beacon, beckoning us to follow. The air was heavy with silence and the only other souls in sight were the Captain and a large stork who had taken up residence on the minaret of the local mosque.
