The real voyage of discovery consists not
in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
—Marcel Proust
“MOROCCO’S ON?” I ASKED my husband, Mark, as he snapped shut his phone. I glanced at five-year-old James zooming his Matchbox car around the kitchen floor, then at little blond Cameron perched on my hip, then at our three-story ocean-view Malibu “country home” with its gleaming high-tech amenities and lush backyard thick with flowers.
Morocco?
“It’s a go!” Boyish-looking to begin with, my husband, then in his late 30s, looked like a little kid when he grinned. His eyes, the color of coffee with cream, had that Photoshop twinkle—naturally.
“So we’re moving to Morocco?” I asked, putting Cameron in his high chair, then peeking in the oven as the escaping aromas of the bubbling eggplant parmesan and the toasting garlic bread filled the kitchen. I cracked some eggs, and tossed the yolks, anchovies, mustard, garlic, and olive oil in the Cuisinart for the Caesar dressing. Africa? We were going to live in Africa?
“Marrakesh, to be precise,” Mark replied in that English accent that still had an aphrodisiacal effect on me. “Three months of living amidst the Berbers! Di, you won’t believe their villages rising up from the desert! Amazing! Elaborately carved, look like they’re made out of sand! Spectacular backdrop.”
He answered his ringing phone. “Mark Burnett …”
We’d been talking about Morocco for months, but the reality of living in that exotic land was only then hitting me. Northern Africa? In the summer? Images of pushing a stroller across the desert in a sandstorm blasted across the movie screen in my mind.
“Just sealed the deal,” he said into the phone, pouring a glass of Cabernet with his free hand and winking at me. “Discovery Channel is sponsoring …”
He clicked off. “Sorry, Di. Where were we?”
“The Berbers, I believe.” The year before, I’d driven a Land Cruiser—alone except for my two kids—across the rugged terrain of Northern Australia—emus and kangaroos darting around everywhere. That was plenty adventurous for me. Saharan Africa, however, was an entirely different story.
“Di, they’re amongst the last remaining nomads!” he said, following me into the dining room while I set the long wood table. I’m Italian-American—to me, eating is the ritual that brings the family together. “The Berbers,” he continued, “pile everything on the family camel and cross the daunting Atlas Mountains twice a year.” He picked up an olive. “Do you realize how hard it is to be a nomad in this era?”
“Mommy, what are nomads?” asked James, looking up with his huge brown eyes as I lit the candles.
“People like us, honey. Except they don’t have a house in Malibu. And they don’t have cars.”
“James, they ride camels!” Mark said.
Mark’s phone rang again. “You heard right. Eco-Challenge number five unfolds in the Sahara. Camel races across the broiling desert sands are just the beginning …”
I envisioned us camped out in a tent on the broiling desert sands, camels racing by.
Mark clicked off, caught my wary expression, and laughed. “Don’t worry, Di! I’ll scout out a cozy place before you guys arrive.”
I mentally compiled the essential supplies: Echinacea, acidophilus, tea tree oil, Band-aids, brewer’s yeast, antibacterial wipes, vitamin C, zinc, assorted homeopathic tinctures … for starters. Oh geez, forget cotton diapers for Cameron—I’d have to bring three months’ worth of eco-friendly disposable diapers instead. Toys. Clothes for the blazing hot days and for the chilly nights in the desert. Nursing supplies. Oh no, not the breast pump. Okay, then, the breast pump. Dress-up clothes and dress-down clothes. Shoes. Makeup. Skin care. Electrical converters. Laptops. Light summer reading. I was going to need a caravan just to get there!
“So, Di, the plan is—”
“Mark, am I going to have to wear a burka?” I interrupted. Blondes may have more fun, but we stick out everywhere except Scandinavia and L.A.
James looked up. “Are we gonna ride camels?”
“You bet!” Mark said to James. His phone rang again. “Mark Burnett …”
James turned to me. “Are we gonna live in a tent again?”
I shrugged. “Daddy promises it will be a pretty one.”
“Will there be a bathroom in this one?”
“I sure hope so.”
“With a swimming pool this time?”
“We’ll see …”
Back then—1998, to be precise—if Mark had floated into the kitchen in a spacesuit announcing we were moving to Mars in an hour, I would have started packing. That’s how madly in love I was with my husband of six years, and how much I believed in our projects that invariably blasted off with him at the controls. Morocco was just the latest chapter in our “adventure marriage”—that had turned into an “adventure family” with two kids. Mark and I jaunted everywhere from Monte Carlo to Cairo (where we’d climbed the Great Pyramids), and we usually packed up the boys, too—setting up in locales from the deserts of Utah to the forests of British Columbia.
Our peripatetic ways weren’t driven merely by a love of nature or a desire to outdo the neighbors. It was just part of the job. Over the previous five years, we’d organized and produced mind-boggling races that represented a new kind of endurance Olympics. Eco-Challenge races were ten-day adventure marathons where 50 gutsy teams sea-kayaked, rappelled down cliffs, hiked up mountains, raced horses, whitewater-rafted, and bicycled along cliffs—all against stunning backdrops—in countries from Argentina to Fiji.
The first Eco-Challenge, which unfolded in Utah in 1995, was picked up by MTV; Good Morning America featured the opening race live. Recently, Discovery Channel had signed on as the sponsor. And with every race, the buzz grew louder, thanks to breathtaking documentaries that captured the “unscripted drama” of the event—the very real perils, the team blow-outs and the nonstop adrenaline rush, as well as the exhilaration of those who actually crossed the finish line. Hundreds of miles and ten days after they’d started, less than half of the participants made it to the last stretch at all. During every race, a number of competitors were helicoptered off to hospitals, and a few nearly died.
I didn’t realize initially that we’d stumbled upon a new entertainment genre. I didn’t have the foggiest notion that Eco-Challenge would pave the way for what would become Mark Burnett Productions’ biggest hit—Survivor—and kick “reality TV” into new orbit. At that moment in May 1998, I was thinking about Pilates, and wondering if Morocco had a studio. It didn’t.
Mark left for Morocco in July. Three weeks later, two long international flights carried the kids and me 6,000 miles to northern Africa, where Mark was waiting for us at the airport, greeting us as though we’d been separated from him for years. Dusk was falling like a soft curtain over Marrakesh as the chauffeured SUV bumped down a donkey-piss dirt road and lurched to a stop in front of small carved wooden doors.
“This is it?” I asked him, looking at the dusty street of dilapidated houses. In the dimming light, it appeared that the only occupants were bony dogs and mangy cats. “Mark, I thought you said it was nice.”
“Di, wait until you see!” As he led us up to a plain stucco building that appeared to have no windows, his phone rang. “Mark Burnett …”
Mark was right: our Marrakesh home for three months was, in fact, fantastic. Behind the small double doors stood larger double doors, and behind them rose a multistoried Moroccan palace from the 1800s, its splendor hidden within. The scent of frankincense drifted out as we stepped into the riad, as this style of palace is known.
We were greeted by Abdul, a butler wearing a flowing white caftan and a fez. Holding a gleaming silver tray, Abdul began deftly pouring fragrant mint tea from a pot held three feet above the small painted glasses. James was already impressed by that show, but then he caught sight of the backdrop.
“Mommy, look!” My son ran over to the inner courtyard. “It’s a swimming pool! Inside the house!”
I surveyed the palace’s interior, noticing the fabulous garden setting thick with trees and flowers and bougainvillea climbing the walls. They certainly had green thumbs around here. Then I looked again. A pool in the middle of the house? With a toddler and a five-year-old running around? Beautiful, yes. Childproof, no. I was going to have to keep Cameron glued to my hip.
“There’s our hammam,” said Mark, pointing not far from the tiled pool to a domed adobe structure, which held a steam room. “And that’s just the beginning!”
With Abdul leading the way, we wound through the three-story palace, once divided into areas for public and family, women and men. It was a spectacular labyrinth of high-ceilinged rooms, arched loggias, screened patios, and inner gardens, all convening on the mosaic-wrapped atrium courtyard, where palm trees and orange trees surrounded a quiet fountain.
The lower floors contained the public areas—the library, the entertainment den, the flower-filled patios, and the kitchen. Eight huge bedrooms, all with their own bathrooms, spread out along the second floor, which was separated into different “wings” by the open spaces created by the atrium. Up the twisting marble stairs, a huge rooftop balcony thick with banana trees formed its own open-air floor, and a spectacular view of a radiant Marrakesh spilled below—with pencil-like minarets and gleaming gold-domed mosques illuminated in the evening light.
My mouth kept falling open at the intoxicating detail: arched windows peering onto inner sanctuaries, hallways wrapped in gorgeous patterned tiles, magnificently crafted wood furniture with mother-of-pearl inlays, lacy lattices, marble columns, cut-out metal lanterns that reflected star patterns on the floor, and glass lights that splashed even more color around the bright rooms.
“Wow, Mark, good job!” I exclaimed, dazzled by the surprises around every corner—not the least of which was the sprawling master bedroom with its canopied four-poster bed, chandeliers, hanging tapestries, woven rugs, nooks, and a huge bathroom with a tub big enough for the extended family. It was certainly a few steps up from camping in the Outback.
“Daddy,” asked James as he peeked around a column, “where are the camels?”
Mark laughed. “Don’t worry—you’ll be seeing plenty of dromedaries!”
“What are those?” James asked, looking at me.
“Your dad’s fancy way of saying camels, honey.”
“For thousands of years, before airplanes and helicopters and cars, the camel was how people crossed the desert,” added Mark. “And for nomads like the Berbers, camels are still their cars.”
The nearest bedroom, where James was to sleep, was disconcertingly far from ours, being across the atrium from the master suite, which took up an entire side of the palace. For the first few nights, we all camped out in the master bedroom. When I tucked James into bed, he was still talking about camels, and wasn’t showing the slightest sign of exhaustion. Cameron, too, was wide awake. The kids had slept en route, and since we’d eaten on the flight, we’d declined dinner when we arrived, but now we were all ravenously hungry.
I tiptoed down to the shadowed kitchen, hoping to find a snack, and let out a scream when I ran right into a stout woman—Minnah, the cook, who greeted me in shrill Arabic, flailing her arms, and making it clear that I was treading on her turf.
I went back upstairs and rummaged through the suitcases—finding a box of animal cookies—and talked to James about camels a bit more. Finally, around three in the morning, we all fell asleep.
The first rays of dawn were streaming into the courtyard, and the smell of baking bread was rising from the kitchen … when we all bolted up in bed. Even Cameron woke up with a start in his portable crib.
“What’s that sound?” asked James.
It was the cry of the muezzin—the Muslim crier—waking up the town at 4:30 A.M. with the Islamic call to prayer. Now aided by loudspeakers, his voice alone boomed so loudly that he didn’t need any electronic help in his beckoning from the minaret, which rose up next to the city’s 12th-century Koutoubia Mosque.
“Al’lah Al Akbar!” the muezzin thundered from the tower, the notes echoing from rooftops. It was a sound we grew fond of over the summer, hearing it five times a day, but that first day it was simply shocking.
“What’s he saying?” asked James.
“God is great!” said Mark. Having arrived three weeks before, he was accustomed to the cries.
“Oh.” James looked thoughtful for a moment. “When can we go swimming?”
We got in a few hours of sleep before that morning’s second call to prayer. Still jetlagged, we shuffled to the central courtyard for breakfast, climbing a few steps into a lovely gazebo with a table in its center.
And then the feast began—honeyed pastries with cashews layered in filo dough, creamy custards, date cookies, porridges, fresh-baked flat breads, homemade jams, dried fruits, cheeses and eggs. For the next three months, plates swirled through the days and the nights: silver trays piled with ceramic bowls brimming with couscous, roasted vegetables, kabobs, tajines (lamb or chicken slow-cooked with olives, almonds, raisins and lemons in heavy glazed pottery with a domed top) … prune-stuffed pheasant served with fiery harissa sauce … quail roasted with sesame seeds and cashews … Fish filled with citrus fruits, and surprisingly heavenly pastille (pigeon pie stuffed with carrots and oranges) became routine, as did condiments like pickled lemons and ginger-cilantro sharmoula sauce.
Mark and I piled our plates high, and Cameron (between nursing) nibbled on bite-sized morsels, but poor James was overwhelmed by the spices and initially made do with sandwiches, granola, and protein bars until Minnah slowly introduced him to no-spice Moroccan fare.
Breakfasts, lunches, and afternoon teas were usually served in the courtyard gazebo—the scorching sun shielded by the palm trees that stretched up to the sky. But at night, when the temperature dropped to pleasantly balmy, the feasting moved to the lantern-lined rooftop, where the outline of the golden city spread below and the house staff hauled up tray after tray of food, all washed down by fine Moroccan red wine and finished off with mint tea and desserts like warm dates and almonds drizzled with chocolate.
That first afternoon, Mark suggested we check out the souk in the walled Old City, called the Medina.
“What’s a souk?” asked James.
“A market where they sell everything,” said Mark. “It’s sort of a Moroccan mall.”
The minute the outer doors of our palace opened, the boys caught sight of two local children playing with stones in the street.
“Mom, look!” yelled James, running back into the palace and emerging with a handful of toys. As we walked across the dirt street, the two Moroccan boys looked up wide-eyed to see two foreign kids who had cool stuff—like a Sesame Street pop-up toy and miniature cars. While the kids were playing together, our driver, Omar, stood watch.
“Here, you can keep these,” said James, handing the locals some of his Matchbox cars. Cameron followed the lead of his big brother, handing over his pop-up toy.
Omar translated in Arabic. “These boys came over from America,” he said. “They want you to keep these toys as gifts.” The local kids’ eyes lit up and huge smiles overtook their faces.
Personally recommended by the government, Omar proved invaluable from that day on, serving not only as translator but also as our guardian and personal guide—chauffeuring us to mosques, mountain camps, and far-off cities. His English was limited, but he communicated with gestures and his warm eyes, and we felt entirely safe in his care.
With the snow-dusted Atlas Mountains rising as a backdrop, the chauffeured SUV bumped down the hill onto smoother roads. Mark talked on the phone while the boys and I stared out the windows as our vehicle passed rickety wood carts pulled by ponies, herds of belled goats, hundreds of rusty bicycles with live chickens or greens in the baskets, falling-apart cars, heaving buses, leathery-skinned men riding mules, seas of pedestrians, and motor scooters zipping along carrying entire families—father in caftan, mother in scarf, and two or three kids wedged in between. Traffic took on a whole different meaning in Marrakesh: it was more an ocean of moving humanity where lanes and traffic lights were only theoretical footnotes. James appeared to be totally engrossed in the strangely different world that was walking, rolling, and trotting along.
The SUV squeezed through impossibly narrow passages until it could go no farther, and we disembarked near a grove of palm trees. Before we even proceeded through the arches of the 900-year-old pink clay walls, we got a whiff of the market, where the mixed scents of cinnamon and saffron, grilled kebabs, baking breads, incense, and animals permeated everything. Donkeys wandered through, monkeys swung from rafters, and live chickens squawked everywhere. It was a scene out of 1001 Arabian Nights—a dizzying maze of vibrant colors, sounds, and smells.
We sauntered past stalls selling olives, figs, dates, and nuts from open burlap sacks; past those where turmeric, cayenne, cumin, cinnamon, saffron, and chili powder were shaped into cones; past vendors selling shawls and glass lanterns; past hanging carpets and shelves of painted ceramics and hookahs. As we weaved through the serpentine hallways, it struck me that the souk was more of a bustling city: you could get seriously lost.
A donkey brayed as it ran by us. “Pony!” cried Cameron.
Outside of the souk, we turned into the Jamma El Fna—a huge columned square lined with food stalls thick with smoke from the grills. It was filled with jugglers, story tellers, scribes, poets, and healers. There were barbers’ stands with little more than a chair, razor, and a jagged mirror, next to dentist stalls with pliers strung from wires above.
“Look!” cried James, pointing to a man with something slithering around his neck. “A snake!”
“James, want to be a snake handler?” asked Mark, pulling out his camera.
He gulped and put on a brave face. “Sure, Dad.”
As I watched the cobra entwine itself along James’s arms and neck, I realized I hadn’t packed supplies for venomous bites. Happily, we didn’t need anything, but I was plenty relieved when the charmer took back his asp.
“Hey,” said Mark, “let’s get a shot of you guys with the monkeys!”
“Mark, they probably have cooties!” I protested, but he was already placing the monkeys on the kids’ heads and clicking away. Luckily, I’d brought special shampoo just in case.
“That was cool!” said James, clinging tightly to my hand after I’d washed off his hand with antibacterial lotion. I’m a germ freak—the kind who wipes down the airline trays and arm rests, and throughout our stay I insisted we drink only bottled water, even using it to brush our teeth. At first, Mark thought I was being extreme, but by the end, he was bragging that unlike almost everyone else, we never got sick.
As we climbed back into the car, James looked back at the pink-walled souk. “That’s not like the mall at home at all.”
That night after a rooftop dinner of tanjia—beef, lemon, and garlic cooked for hours in a crock—we all fell into such a deep slumber that we scarcely heard the morning call to prayer.
A few days later, we headed to the Sahara.
“We’re gonna ride camels!” James informed Abdul, then Minnah, and finally Omar—none of them fluent in English.
“James,” I said, flipping through a guidebook while Mark worked the phone, “did you know that camels can go for two weeks without water?”
“Wow,” he said, just as we approached the sand dunes.
“And now the fun starts,” said Mark, folding up his telephone. “Omar, hit it!”
For the next 15 minutes, we roared up and down several miles of dunes, the ride feeling like a roller coaster combined with a ship lurching on the high seas. Mark was laughing, the kids were screaming with delight, and I was sure I was going to toss my breakfast. Finally, around the time my stomach felt like it had landed in the backseat, we spotted a herd of massive one-humped animals being led by a Berber shepherd wielding a whip.
“Camel!” cried Cameron.
“Yay!” yelled James, wide-eyed as he took in the beasts, while Mark and Omar negotiated prices for a ride. The camels knelt down, and Cameron and I hopped up on a gentle creature. James rode alone on a sweet-natured dromedary, and Mark followed on a friskier fellow.
“This camel’s hissing at me!” said Mark as we sauntered along. The biggest kick was watching James, laughing away as he rode along the Sahara on his dromedary. I, too, enjoyed the experience—although the end of the ride was a little unnerving. When the camel knelt down for us to descend, Cameron and I nearly took a nosedive into the sand.
“One last picture!” said Mark. “Come on, James, get closer to the camel!”
“James,” I warned, “that’s close enough.”
“Closer, James, come on!”
“James, listen to Mommy. That’s the hisser. Don’t get too close.”
“Closer, James, closer!”
Step by step, James backed up to the camel’s side. At last, when James was millimeters away from the reclining beast, he cracked a wary smile. Mark readied the camera for the perfect shot. In that instant, the camel leapt up, swung around, and shat all over James.
Mark burst out laughing. Omar ran over with water and towels, and I tried to console James.
“Honey,” I told him, “the French say if a bird poops on you, it’s really good luck. So just imagine all the good luck that’s coming your way!”
James took it in stride. Even though it appeared to barely faze him, he scarcely mentioned camels for the rest of our stay.
That evening, Mark took me to a secluded lantern-lit restaurant in the heart of the old walled city. Omar whisked us through the labyrinthine Arab quarter to a dark alley. There we got out and met a well-dressed man holding a lantern, who escorted us down dark twisting alleys deep into the heart of the Casbah.
“Mark, is this safe?” I asked as the first man handed us off to a second, who led us down another dark alley.
“Di, we’re fine.” He said it was a secret hideaway that even most locals didn’t know of. I kept thinking we were going to get mugged and nobody would ever find us, but at last the twisting walkway dead-ended, and the man gestured for us to go through a door.
I worried that it was a setup, as it didn’t look like there was any restaurant behind that door. But, indeed, there was: a totally swanky high-ceilinged dinner club, like something you’d find in Paris or New York, with live music and wonderful food. We ate course after course sitting on pillows at low tables, as belly dancers wearing bangles and sequined silk get-ups shimmied by. Amazingly, Mark even turned off his phone.
Back at the palace, we checked on the boys and then had a nightcap on the rooftop, looking out over the glowing city lights as the scent from nearby orange groves wafted through the air.
“So, Di, what do you think?” Mark asked, pulling me close in a passionate kiss. “Are you happy?”
“Real happy,” I replied. “In fact, I’m blown away.”
My husband grinned like a content little kid. “We’ve come a long way, huh?”
I nodded. Five years before, Eco-Challenge was just an idea that almost everybody had laughed off as far-fetched. But Mark hadn’t stopped pitching. And we kept finding new sponsors for him to pitch to. We’d made our dream a reality.
In the weeks leading up to the races, friends and family flew in—welcome additions to our palace. Their company proved particularly refreshing for me, as Mark was deeply involved in logistics for Eco-Challenge. Although Mark’s recently widowed father Archie was well into his 70s, he’d made the journey from London’s East End to the beating heart of Morocco. And our California pals, Ben Bourgeois and his friend Jason, also joined us for two weeks, their good humor adding even more festiveness to the stay.
Omar drove us around to the carpet shops, where we sat on the carpeted floor drinking tea and haggling with merchants, who explained the meaning of the woven designs as dozens of rugs were unrolled and displayed, followed by dozens and dozens more—a ritual that went on for hours, putting us into a mesmerized state. You can’t walk into a Moroccan rug store and come out empty-handed, and we didn’t.
Afterward, we walked through the nearby square and got temporary henna tattoos—curves and dashes painted on our chins, foreheads, and arms. Just as we finished, the muezzin called out, and hundreds ran off for the mosque that towered in the corner of the Medina, while some knelt on prayer rugs pointed in the direction of Mecca—in Saudi Arabia. Others simply touched the tops of their heads.
For those friends who could stay, the kicker took place in early October, when the opening ceremonies were held. Each Eco-Challenge had grown in scale, and the ceremonies that year took on an almost Olympian grandeur. Held just before the start of the race, the event brought together competitors, who paraded out, one team at a time, proudly holding their country’s flags. Moroccan carpets were laid out in between dozens of makeshift tents; Arabic music filled the air; belly dancers put on shows; platters arrived heaped with couscous and tajines; and hundreds of staff, sponsors, and competitors mingled during the big hoopla. It was the last chance to party before the race began.
“… 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 … go!” Mark, wearing an Indiana Jones hat, was standing on top of a Land Cruiser, yelling into a megaphone at several hundred competitors and nearly as many reporters.
The air crackled with energy as hundreds of camels topped by hard hat–wearing riders barreled across the Sahara, followed by scores of Berbers, men on camels, and children running barefoot. It looked like a scene from Lawrence of Arabia.
It was October—ten weeks since I’d shown up with the boys. We were in Essaouira, a port town of whitewashed buildings with blue shutters, where the desert meets the Atlantic. The ocean crashed behind us, and before us, the desert was a sea of sand dust as 53 four-person teams, who’d flown in from as far away as Chile, Norway, and Japan, shot off on dromedaries in the first leg of the ten-day, 300-mile event officially called The Discovery Channel Eco-Challenge Morocco.
Arriving three days before and given a crash course on the topography by the race director—Mark—competitors had learned only that morning what the opening event would be. Most were experienced mountain climbers and kayakers, but few had raced camels before. More grueling challenges lay ahead: kayaking across torrid crocodile-infested channels, rappelling down cliffs, climbing up 13,000-foot-high mountains, and hiking through rocky canyons, among them.
The competitors were kept in the dark throughout the ten-day event, learning about the next day’s challenge only when they reached that day’s final checkpoint. Navigation skills were crucial and compasses were key, but even with those tools, racers often stumbled off-course, sometimes for days. Beyond the physical challenges—partakers often said they’d never done anything more demanding in their lives—a major hurdle was simply keeping the team together: if even one person in a four-person team dropped out, the entire team was disqualified.
Sharing binoculars with Mark’s dad and his friend Jean, I watched the race until the dust cloud disappeared. Our SUV raced after the camels across the hot, rocky desert, where we saw some racers being bucked off; in the distance, we could see ancient cities carved into the mountains, the same color as the rock. Even traveling in an air-conditioned vehicle, the journey was arduous, as we twisted through massive sand dunes and into the fringes of the Western Sahara. Crossing it on a pack animal sounded nightmarish to me.
We stopped at the initial checkpoint, to cheer the first teams coming in, and then we stopped at the second, then the third. It took hours before we finally arrived at our destination—the Eco-Challenge tent city for staff, medical personnel, and the media. While competitors slogged it out and slept under the stars, often getting only a couple hours to sleep a night, the event staff stayed in relative luxury inside a centrally-located desert oasis.
Each tent in the camp had its purpose, from the triage tent to the press tent. A billowing tent, known as HQ, was furnished with ornate couches, pillows, and gorgeous rugs; it was illuminated by Moroccan lanterns. While those participating in the race were living on dried food and power bars, professional cooks whipped up our meals in the kitchen tent. Just outside the camp, helicopters and Isuzus stood by for emergencies.
After camping out a few nights in the tent city—journeying to checkpoints and back again—Mark suggested we all check into an “inn” near Checkpoint 9 in the Atlas Mountains, which rose between the Sahara and the Mediterranean. It took hours to drive through the formidable terrain, and the only light to be seen for the entire journey was in the star-speckled sky.
Deep in the heart of Berber country, the sparse, bare-bones inn was lit solely by candlelight and lanterns. Given the hour, we immediately sat down to eat, feasting on yet another incredible Moroccan meal at a long stone table. There in our secluded mountain hideaway, we talked into the night about the magnificent country, the rigors of the event underway, and the entire over-the-top experience. How romantic, I thought, looking at the shadows from the flickering candles, to live without electricity for a night.
Just after dessert, Mark’s phone rang: he was needed at HQ immediately.
“Mark, you’re leaving us?” I asked. “Here? Alone?” Yikes! This place was literally in the middle of nowhere.
“Don’t worry, Di, the innkeepers will take good care of you!” Mark reassured me. “See you guys at first light.”
He waved good-bye to his dad, Jean, the kids, and me; then he sped off with Omar, leaving us in the middle of the desert with no modern amenities for miles. The innkeepers showed us to our rooms, which brought new meaning to the word minimalist. The furnishings consisted of a mattress on the floor, two small end tables, and one candle, which we used to locate the bathroom—a hole in the floor—that was down the pitch-black hallway. This “inn” made the tent camp look plush.
The boys fell asleep immediately, leaving me alone to fret by candlelight. I flipped through a book, the words only symbols on the pages. They might as well have been in Arabic. Obviously, I wasn’t cut out for an Eco-Challenge. While the teams were roughing it—at that moment they were sleeping on mountainsides or in caves—I was petrified spending the night at an “inn.” Would we be attacked by Bedouins, be swept away in a sandstorm? The candle flickered ominously, and I blew it out, unable to sleep in the eerie desert darkness.
I’d finally convinced myself that I was being paranoid, when something brushed past my door. It was probably just a scorpion or a cobra. Or a kidnapper. I relit the candle. Fumbling for the door, I peeked into the hallway. A shadowy figure was slithering along on the floor! I was about to let out a blood-curdling scream, when I looked more closely. It was my father-in-law crawling on all fours on the cold cement floor, feeling his way to the bathroom down the hall. His candle had already burned out.
“Archie, are you okay?” I asked him.
I heard him cursing in his thick Scottish accent. “Bloody hell!”
Dawn finally arrived, and in the distance I heard the noisy whirring of a helicopter. From the windows we saw the sand kicking up, and the kids ran outside in delight, screaming “Daddy!” The helicopter propeller swirled dust in all directions as we approached. Mark always loved to swoop in dramatically, and after our dreadful night, his arrival seemed all the more heroic.
“Morning!” he exclaimed, swooping up the kids. “Wasn’t that fun? How’d you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” I said with a smile. A colicky baby suffering from insomnia, that is.
Mark asked his father to watch the kids: he wanted me to accompany him to Checkpoint 9.
Great. From a sleepless night in the heart of the desert to a helicopter—a form of transportation that keeps me silently praying from takeoff to landing. I braced myself for the dust storm and climbed into the backseat, immediately putting on the headset.
“Everything all right up there today?” I asked the pilot.
The pilot replied in a thick French accent. “Oui, madame.”
As we made our way up the mountain, horrible turbulence struck immediately.
“Is this normal?!” I shrieked to the pilot. “Are we okay?”
“The heat thermals up here make it a bumpy ride. We’re fine.”
Mark saw his chance to push my buttons. He grabbed the controls, making the helicopter rock back and forth. He and the pilot found this hilarious, and I managed a nervous laugh. It was a tradition at every Eco-Challenge to scare me with some sort of near-miss. Mark’s nature was to constantly challenge people: he loved pushing the envelope. He was most thrilled when on the verge of danger—blazing trails through dense jungles, jumping out of airplanes, zip-lining over crocodile-infested waters, rappelling down cliffs—things that most sane people wouldn’t dare try.
After ascending several thousand feet of altitude, rockily, in minutes, I felt disoriented, as if I were out of my body. Attempting to disembark, I stumbled, thinking I was going to faint. After a cup of mint tea, I snapped to, and looked down at the pass between the majestic Atlas Mountains and Dades Valley on an astounding sight: thousands of nomadic Berbers with their camels and sheep were moving along in a mass migration reminiscent of The Ten Commandments.
“Mark, isn’t it odd that this leg is particularly tough for even seasoned competitors with the latest equipment and gear, but to the Berbers it’s easy-peasy?” I looked through the binoculars. “My God, they’re wearing sandals and kaftans! And they’re making better time than the best teams.”
Mark grabbed the binoculars and looked down at the nomads. “That says something, Di, doesn’t it?”
Back in Marrakesh, the first teams crossed the finish line to a huge crowd of wildly cheering spectators—volunteers, families, friends, crew, and press. The winning team, for the second year in a row, was Team Aussie. After a hellacious week of treacherous conditions—fighting oppressive heat, hypothermia, sleep deprivation, blisters, wounds, and head injuries—and after racing camels, and then kayaking and climbing mountains, it was an emotional moment of laughter, exhaustion, and tears of joy.
Mark congratulated everyone as they arrived, presenting the top teams with bottles of champagne. Each team member took a swig from the bottle, then shook it up, and sprayed it all over their teammates, their first shower in over a week.
The closing ceremonies capped the inspirational journey. The racers had subjected themselves to a brutal 300-mile course and ten (or more) days of harsh reality—a physical and mental test that challenged them to their limits. They had been overcome by exhaustion, and some got hopelessly lost. Yet they had carried on, despite their aching bodies, wet shoes, and blister-covered feet.
Video editors whipped together a 20-minute highlight reel capturing the most dramatic moments of the expedition, but that scarcely told the whole story. The hundreds of hours of footage were edited into a four-hour documentary for Discovery Channel narrated by Liam Neeson. The next year, it won the sports Emmy for Outstanding Program Achievement.
Eco-Challenge Morocco had been the biggest yet—and from then on, its popularity soared. On the flight back, Mark kept running through ideas for the next year’s Eco-Challenge in Argentina. I was thinking how amazing it was that Mark and I, both from solid working-class backgrounds, had coupled tenacity and determination—with some luck, of course—and propelled our lives to new heights.
But the ascent was just the beginning, and there were no signs that we wouldn’t be together
… forever.