If you dream of Morocco, you will dream of a train of camels and caravans crossing the Sahara by the light of a waxing moon. You will feel the cool touch of blue Berber robes against your skin, and taste the sweet spice of mint tea with honey.
As you grow restless, and teeter on the point between consciousness and slumber, your dream will take you into the shadow of the souks of Marrakech.
Do not linger between the butcher stalls, where bloody skulls stare at you with pearly eyes. Do not linger in the Hammams, where
bearded men scrub their naked bellies. Do not linger by the towers of spices that assault you with a confusion of scents: saffron, cumin, pepper. Do not linger in the leather workshops, where the air is heavy with dried sweat and camel piss. Do not linger by the mosque, where the men jeer at your milky, unveiled face.
Do not linger.
Escape the souks and return.
Return to the desert, to the tents, to the only Morocco you want to believe exists.