A Walking Holiday in Costa Rica by Mary Novakovich Essay

Youd have to have been living on another planet for the past half-decade not to have clocked the rise and rise of the Red City, Marrakesh. While five-star resorts have proliferated right up to the w onlys of the 1,000-year-old medina, intimate them, along its chiaroscuro labyrinth of alleys and lanes, chic and unique riads have upturned and elevated paradigms of Moroccan design and service. civil and luxurious, Marrakesh now feels like a place where theres nixor close to nothingyou cant have. Which is why the places to look for the real Morocco often lie far from the burnished suites and buzz restaurants of this city on the plain. Striking out for the farther reaches of the country is rewarded with unique takes on traditional hospitality, both(prenominal) new and timeless. They can be found deep in the southern closely region, where ungenerous st unmatchable begins to withdraw from to the saffron-gold sands of the Sahara or high among the grand Atlas, where Berber culture has its oldest and still strongest roots, and brilliant colors and tribal traditions fanfare amid sometimes indescribably severe natural beauty or along Moroccos coast, whose whitewashed, fortified villages bounce both European colonial history and Islamic mystery.Far below the historic Berber stronghold of Zagora, in the Dra valley, where only the faintest tire-tread marks indicate your path, my guide and I speed in our Toyota 4Runner past a scene of cinematic emptiness, shaded in the non-tones of the desert. After an hours drive from the town of Mhamid, we reach, of all things, a schoolhouse, fix on a small rise here, a 4 x 4 awaits to shepherd me to Erg Chigaga Luxury Camp. The brainchild of a transplanted English hotel executive, Nick Garsten, and a Berber desert guide named Moustafa Boufrifri, cognize to all as Bobo, the large number lies in the Erg Chigaga dunes, which climb to heights of 1,000 feet. The eight traditional caidal tents are affiliated by twin pavilions with o rnate blackwork on their exteriors inside, the walls are striped in bold red and cream, and fatheaded pile rugs line the ground. Bathrooms have hand-worked metalvanities and hot- and cold-water buckets on teak platforms for hammam-style bathing (which uses only about one-tenth of the water required by a conventional showera crucial concession here, where it is the most precious commodity).Crimson wool runners crisscross the camp, from tent to tent and from dining to leisure pavilions at darkness theyre banked with lines of glowing lanterns. Flanking one edge of the main area is a row of palm trunks, contact by which are suspended several hammockswhat Bobo charmingly refers to as Erg Chigagas chill-out zone. Bobo himselfsupremely competent and drily remarkable in five languageslopes about in his cobalt-blue turban and djellaba, pouring shots of Berber whiskey, the ubiquitous and wickedly strong mint-tea blend. cardinal newer and more private tents, set about a 15-minute walk f rom the main camp, make excellent vacation destinations. The energy of Erg Chigaga seems prevailingly friendly and informala place to leaven the intrigue and high romance quotient of a desert bivouac with doses of extreme-ish activities (sand-boarding to the south late-afternoon camel treks) and easy camaraderie around the fire after sunset.About 20 miles from Erg Chigaga, in the taller dunes at the edge of the ancient Iriki lake bed, is an encampment conceived for those who seek desert romance of the writ-large, Lawrence of Arabiavarietyand are uncoerced to pay top dollar for it. The Camp of Dar Ahlam is a one-night experience as part of a chronic stay at the elegant guesthouse of the same name in Skoura, some 200 miles to the northwest. First set up in 2007 as a single tent, it has expanded over the years, and can now hold up as many as 30 people, but is still meant for only one group at a time. During my stay I am looked after by Ahmed, the camp manager, and a small staff. Th e camp reprises the narrative theme for which its namesake hotel (house of dreams, in Arabic) is known my stay unspools in a series of mise-en-scnes on-key from a Thesiger passageor a Ridley Scott epic.My tent is of the simplest white canvas, lined in sisal and equipt with a low wooden bed and an embossed-brass table surrounded by kilim-covered cushions. At dusk, I sit down ensconced in a Roorkhee chair in front of it, enjoying an aperitif (served on estate silver), surrounded by towering mounds of the Sahara, their summits shaped to papers-edge fineness by the wind. I had no inkling of the production happening one dune away, until Ahmed came to collect me for dinner a trek over its crest revealed a tent surrounded by lanterns and, inside, lambent with the glow of multiplecandelabras. A table was set opulently enough to gratify a cherifa. I was served a tangia, a meat stew prepared in a terra-cotta urn and slow-cooked overnight in a wood-fired oven.